Traces of Their Stay

Over the years, I have had the privilege of welcoming many kinds of guests. Each one brings a story, a way of being, a rhythm of life. When I look back, I see that hosting is not just about rooms and meals. It is about moments shared, the laughter that lingers in the air, the quiet conversations under the trees, and the small connections that remain long after people have left.

Some guests come for silence. They arrive from cities full of pollution, noise, rush, and restless nights. Here, they sit beneath apple trees, breathe in the cool mountain air, and let their shoulders finally rest. After a day or two, I see the change in them. Their expressions soften, their movements slow, they smile more, and they look lighter, as if they’ve laid down a burden they didn’t know they were carrying.

Others arrive with restless energy, eager to explore. They want to walk every trail, climb every ridge, taste every herb growing wild along the fence. Through their excitement, I see my own land with fresh eyes. Their questions about plants, birds, and farming practices remind me of how much beauty is hidden in plain sight. Many brim with ideas about what I could add to the orchard or how I might expand its possibilities. While not every suggestion takes root, the exchange itself is energising, and the land feels new again through their wonder and questions.

Families bring their own warmth. Children race across the lawn, their laughter echoing against the hills, while parents discover a rare stillness. I’ve seen kids pull their mothers and fathers into games of uno, tambola, or ludo, keeping them away from their phones and into the present moment. Sometimes I join them, sometimes I simply watch from the side, reminded of how joy can be so simple.

Then there are those who notice the quiet details. They ask about the age of a tree, the history of a path, or the sharpness of a spice. One lady spent nearly her entire stay in the garden, weeding, planting, and caring for the soil as though it were her own. She left behind flowers and kindness that still linger in memory. A group of thoughtful travellers once spent hours in conversation, sharing stories of their faith and way of life, offering me perspectives that led me to look within. And one guest became such a close friend that now he returns like family, helping me with others as if this were his home too. These are the bonds that outlast bookings.

There have, of course, been challenges and lessons too. I have learned that not every guest is the right fit for this place. A homestay is not a hotel; it is first and foremost a home with its own rhythm and values. For it to remain true, harmony matters. Cleanliness matters. Respect for the team working here matters. Most guests understand this instinctively. They treat the cottages gently, honour the effort of those who serve them, and sometimes leave the place even better than they found it. A few, inevitably, do not understand this. In the early days I struggled with this, torn between tolerance and frustration. Over time, I have grown firm yet calm. Protecting the spirit of the place means choosing carefully whom to welcome. Peace of mind and respect for this home are worth more than filling my homestay every day. I have started denying various booking requests.

Food, too, has brought its own share of variety. Over the years I have welcomed vegetarians, vegans, Jains, those who keep kosher, and many who happily enjoy every kind of meal. There have been non-vegetarians with their quirks and preferences. I have hosted guests who practise intermittent fasting, and others who cannot begin their morning without strong coffee and a heavy breakfast. An endless assortment of habits and choices has passed through this dining space. Yet at my table, no one has ever gone hungry. Most guests leave with kind words for the meals, perhaps because each dish carries not only the freshness of the farm and orchard, but also the quiet care and love with which it is prepared. In return, I ask only for understanding. Among other items, my deep-freezer holds some meat for my own use as well, and I am always open about it, even with those who would prefer not to even think about it being there. I have quit alcohol, but don’t mind my guests indulging in it. Hospitality, after all, flows most freely when respect moves both ways.

Some guests love to spend their days outdoors, soaking in the sun, watching clouds drift across the valley, or listening to the wind play through the fruit trees. Others prefer the comfort of the indoors, curled up with books or conversations. I do not mind either way, but I feel happiest when I see people meeting the outdoors as it is – because it is this land, the orchard and its regenerative rhythm, that holds the heart of their stay.

Meals, too, carry their own lessons. At times, food runs late, and my team waits longer than they should, the dishes ready and waiting. Many of them walk from nearby villages, often through forest paths, and their time is precious. Serving meals on time is not only practical; it is an act of care. Food eaten fresh holds its warmth and flavour, richer than when it is reheated again and again. Sometimes a guest hesitates to walk over to the dining area, but most soon adjust, making the short walk part of their day, and discovering that food tastes best when shared at the right time and place.

Hosting has taught me patience, kindness, and clarity. It has shown me that opening one’s home is both a gift and a responsibility. Some guests arrive as strangers and leave as friends. Some remind me to protect the values that shape this place. All, in their own way, leave behind traces – laughter, stories, a shift in perspective, or a deeper appreciation for the land itself.

As I write in the stillness of early morning, before my guests stir, the air is alive with birdsong. Soon footsteps will sound on the stairs, doors will open, and I will share a simple cup of coffee with those who gather, watching the day unfold together.

And so the place lives on, carrying many stories in its silence. Each guest adds something, takes something, and leaves a part of themselves behind. In the end, what remains is simple: people seeking a pause, a connection, a place to belong, if only for a little while.

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